


Poor Unfortunate Soul

by ferventrabbit



Series: Disney for cannibals [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Disney for cannibals, Dreams, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Romance, Someone Help Will Graham, Therapy, hannibal and will are every character in the little mermaid, season 1-era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-01 23:35:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5225474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferventrabbit/pseuds/ferventrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will would sell his soul to be rid of the nightmares that plague him. Or, at least, his voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lionheartgirl90](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lionheartgirl90/gifts).



> Co-authored by an amazing friend who shall remain anonymous. Written for Lionheartgirl90's request.

The hands on the clock ticked one minute past six. God, when had it done that, Will wondered. He could have sworn it had been 4:30 just a minute ago. The papers before him, however, didn’t seem to account much for the passing of time. They stared up at him from a sullen and unmarked pile on the desk before him – Hannibal’s desk. Will had commandeered it two hours before, insisting that he had to get these papers marked before they could commence with their therapy session for the evening. If he went home, he would fall asleep, and if he fell asleep? The nightmares would come clawing in to devour him whole. He would throw himself out of sleep sweating, exhausted, trembling. And with a stack of still unfinished papers.

Hannibal had relinquished his throne with an idle shrug of fine fabric, suggesting that his office might not be the best place for such work – as he had a different sort of appointment to keep this afternoon – but if Will felt he could keep his concentration through a harpsichord tuning, he was more than welcome to stay.

For a while it had worked, the discordant, unpredictable twang of the tuner at work keeping Will grounded as he tore through his students’ papers, but time had started to slip and jump in odd movements of music as the psychiatrist tested the newly-tuned keys of his harpsichord. Will had felt the poor tuner's anxiety when he'd been here, Hannibal hovering over the man like a concerned parent, clucking as if to soothe the instrument through its ordeal. Now Hannibal was stroking the keys with familiar fondness, plucking a melody that Will couldn't quite place. When it suddenly stopped Will looked up, startled.

"Sounded good - why did you stop?"

"It is difficult to concentrate, with your litany of noises."

"My _noises?_ "

Rough sounds rolled awkwardly out of Hannibal’s mouth, jarring with his elegant appearance. First came the loud huffing, then the snapping click of his tongue, the Shakespearean sigh, the grunt of frustration.

Oh. Those noises.

"Sorry. I didn't realize I was doing it."

Hannibal nodded, and Will flushed at the barely-there glint in his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder if you're at all aware of how noisy you are. How vocal, even. I became keenly aware of it during our last therapy session."

“Oh.” Will fought to keep his voice even. Their last session had not included much therapy at all. However, they hadn’t discussed any of the odd events that Will hoped the good doctor had _not_ recorded in any fashion. If Hannibal seemed content to not bring the last session up, Will was more than happy to leave it buried in a deep and unmarked grave as well. "So I am _vocal_. Is that such a bad thing?"

"Perhaps not," Hannibal admitted. Closing the harpsichord with loving hands, he moved to join Will at the desk. Those same hands, that same touch, carefully removed the paper from Will’s fingers, placing it out of the way on top of the stack of others. 

"Can I help you, Dr. Lecter?"

"I'm curious, Will."

"I've learned to be wary of your curiosity," said Will. Hannibal perched on the edge of the desk, his trousers crinkling at the knees. His head titled to the left, gaze growing somehow more intent for it, and those lips quirked just the barest fraction in amused fascination. That hint of a smile was danger, the only signal warning Will that things were about to escalate quickly. Will kept as still as he could, waiting. "Is there something you want?"

And there it was - the grin that Will both dreaded and adored. "What I want from you is...your voice."

"What - "

"An evening with me. No speaking, no noises. If you can manage it."

Will slumped back in the chair, regaining only a few inches of empty air between them. “Why? What for?”

“The body often expresses with raw sounds what the mind has not yet found the words to articulate. You are looking a little rough around the edges, so to speak. It seemed rude to mention, but after listening to nearly two hours of your huffs and puffs, I feel it my place to ask if things are worse than usual. Are they?”

Worse than usual? What was _usual_ anymore? He dreamed of demons, deer, and dead men, never sure which one he was, or worse, which one he wanted to be. He opened his mouth to say so, but only a sigh came rattling out as the words died unspoken.

“My point exactly,” Hannibal gave one slow nod of gracious victory. “I think my proposal might be beneficial to you, Will. If you are consciously silent for a span of time, you might finally find words for whatever it is you are trying to tell yourself.”

“Your proposal doesn’t sound particularly conducive to a productive therapy session, Doctor.”

“I was thinking something a little less…clinical. How about a casual dinner?”

“Dinner? Without a sound?”

“No talking. Sighing. _Zip._ ”

"But without my voice, how can I - "

Hannibal reached up and placed a finger against Will's lips, and Will resisted the new urge to tease it into his mouth.

"You have remarkable powers of empathy, Will. I have faith that you can navigate a meal without asking me to pass the salt."

"Your dishes never need salt."

"A poor example."

Will felt the weight of Hannibal's request and knew that dinner would be interesting, if not entirely difficult. But, for once, Will was certain Hannibal wasn't interested in dinner. He would make a show of it, he couldn't help it, but Will thought about afterwards, about Hannibal looking at him and Will unable to cut the tension with a nervous laugh. And what if Hannibal revisited the events of their last meeting? Will remembered Hannibal's hand on his neck, his fingers trailing down his chest, a kiss meant to consume him. The thought of silence being his only answer to such sensation seemed impossible.

Will's throat clicked as he swallowed, but he hid it with an intrigued "hmph."

"You accept, then?" Hannibal asked. Will looked up at the man before him and wondered if such a laughable experiment might honestly give him the one thing he wanted desperately - dreamless sleep. He would sell his soul for it. He could certainly sell his voice. He forced himself to meet Hannibal’s gaze and nodded.

 

For a while it was almost a relief. Will let himself be guided, followed Hannibal's lead as they left the office, slipping into the Bentley and arriving at Hannibal's house with not a single word shared, a single sigh lost. As Will hung their coats in the closet he found himself experimenting with the patterns of his breath, deep inhales and slow, measured exhales. Puffs of breath with engine rhythm. Voicelessness gave way to playful breathing, to a heightening of his hearing. God, was his breathing always so loud? Above it, however, Will made out the sounds of Hannibal tinkering in the kitchen - the first chords of the symphony beginning. Hiding in the coat closet alone wouldn’t solve anything. Taking a slow, deep, nearly silent breath, he stepped back into the hallway.

Will set the table, the clanking of heavy plates ringing in his ears. He'd made Hannibal promise to reign in the elaborate centerpieces during their dinners together. Half the time Will was stuck dodging peacock feathers just to see Hannibal's face. They had different notions of casual.

Some men walked into rooms, but _walked_ was too low a word for how Hannibal moved. He flowed into the dining room, movements strong and fluid with endless control and grace as he extended a glass of red wine to Will. "Merlot?"

Will opened his mouth to say  _yes, thank you_ , but caught himself, sucking in a surprised breath to snatch the words back.

"Very good," Hannibal smiled. Will accepted the wine and thought to stay in the dining room, but something pulled at him and he followed Hannibal into the kitchen, leaning against the island to watch the man work. "I must say, Will, that your presence in and of itself is very loud."

Will raised an eyebrow, which Hannibal caught as he turned to retrieve a knife from the opposite counter.

"I have always found myself attuned to your movements, interpreting them as one would a sentiment or declaration. Your mind is close to the surface." Will approached him then, holding out his hands. "Yes, you can help."

Hannibal allowed him to slice the chorizo and artichokes for the antipasto, humming with approval as Will held the handle of the knife with the heel of his hand to cut. 

"You're learning," Hannibal said. Will shrugged.

The antipasto wasn't disastrous, which was a feat as far as Will was concerned. They ate in mutual silence punctuated by sips of wine. Then Hannibal served him a careful portion of roast loin of pork resting on a bed of caramelized fennel before sitting at the head of the table.

"I find the quiet refreshing," Hannibal said. Will employed one succinct gesture to communicate his feelings about  _that_. "Charming, as ever, Will."

Usually, dinner was a flurry of successive observations, thoughts, volleys. Eating was an afterthought in Will's effort to keep up with Hannibal's conversation, his mind full and heavy by the end. This time he focused on the sensation of taste, of spiced meat melting like butter on his tongue and the crisp, snapping flavor of fennel as he chewed. The sound of his teeth, the fork scraping across his plate. Then Hannibal. 

"You seem to be enjoying it."

Will nodded, taking another bite for emphasis. He watched as Hannibal sliced a piece of meat, kept watching as he brought it to his mouth, watched his lips close around it. Will catalogued the sight of the man’s jaw working in slow, deliberate appreciation, his eyes closed in pleasure. He wondered why he'd never watched Hannibal savor a meal before. Maybe the talking interrupted it. Maybe he didn't realize how much it would affect him.

Hannibal finished his last bite and swallowed, sitting back as contentment settled around his shoulders like a cat. He glanced at Will from beneath heavy eyelashes, and Will felt his cheeks flush. "Is something troubling you, Will?"

Will cleared his throat, not caring if that constituted as a noise.

"Then onto dessert, a simple panna cotta with a cranberry glaze." Hannibal took Will's plate, leaning close to collect the dish, but his presence lingered beside Will a second longer than necessary to complete the task. With a rush of breath he swooped in and bit the flesh of Will's throat, gently teasing it until it blushed red. Will's own breath hitched, nearly losing an exclamation of words jumbled by surprise, but he managed to clamp his upper teeth down on his tongue to keep quiet. This was a gambit. Just another gambit in the game Hannibal had laid out for him and _he would not lose._

"Good boy," Hannibal murmured, a low laugh escaping him as he retreated. “I thought for certain you would have something to say about that.” Then he was gone, dishes, satisfaction, and all.

 

Dessert was accompanied by espresso and total silence. Will ate quickly, not chancing to look up at Hannibal until both dishes were empty. He could still feel those lips on his skin and did not dare to watch them close around a spoon. As Hannibal rose, Will ducked away before the man reached his seat, choosing to hover awkwardly in the doorway and safely out of reach. The experiment had lost its novelty.

Hannibal returned from the kitchen and extinguished the candles on the table. Will felt himself panic as Hannibal approached him. He swallowed it as best he could.

"It is a strange vulnerability, to be without a voice," Hannibal conceded. "You're doing quite well."

Will let his head thud lightly against the wall, and he looked up at Hannibal with a hopeful quirk of a brow.  _Can it be over, then?_

"A little longer," said Hannibal. “You’ve already worked so hard, it would be a shame to stop now. Dinner was lovely, but hardly taxing. I think the experiment will prove more fruitful if we push you closer to your limits.”

Will’s other brow rose to join the first in a tacit demand of _How?_

Hannibal’s answer was as wordless as Will’s. He crowded Will up against the wall, leaning over to nuzzle into his neck, lips trailing up to pull his earlobe between teeth. A whimper rose in the back of Will’s throat, but he pushed it down, catching it before it could escape. To keep the sound safe in the dark recesses of his mouth,  he pulled Hannibal's face to his, finding those lips with his own, breathing quickly through his nose as he waged war with a kiss against the man who sought his surrender.

It did not send his opponent into retreat, but instead spurred him on to greater offensive. Hannibal’s hand inched down to press at the front of his jeans and this time Will couldn't stop the moan that tore through him. "Tsk tsk. That's strike one." Hannibal withdrew, unperturbed but for a slight bend in his collar. Will felt like he was drowning, and the angle of Hannibal’s mouth showed how obviously he knew it. "Why don't you go and wait for me. Collect your thoughts. I think perhaps we are getting somewhere."

Hannibal disappeared into the kitchen, and Will all but bolted from the room. His arousal was tinged with frustration. He wanted to keep some vestige of control, to show Hannibal that he could. He knew he was at risk of falling. He wanted a say in how far, and how hard. He stared at the front door for a moment, the exit from this madness, the return to his own, and stepped towards it.

But his hand failed to touch the handle, fingers falling short of the gleaming brass knob. It had been there for a moment as the moan ripped out of him. He had felt the thoughts arching across his brain, searching for the words, searching for the voice necessary to say whatever it was he didn’t know needed saying. If he walked out that door now, he could see the night ahead of him with clear abhorrence. Sweat soaked, exhausted, terrified, trembling.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Or he could extend this session a little longer. What a small price to pay for the hope of finding peace.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to an amazing co-author who will (hopefully) get an AO3 of her very own one day!

Will had never seen an elegant bedroom before and thus had no true benchmark for comparison, but Hannibal's bedroom was  _elegant_. Thick, off-white sheets melted beneath velvet blue, and soft grey plaid was tucked gently against the edge of the bed like a fitted suit. The floor was a patchwork of rustic wood, and Will could picture himself peaking into the captain's quarters of a ship, dark browns and blues stark against the ocean mist. He closed his eyes and heard his heartbeat in his veins singing through him, broken thoughts crashing against the walls of his mind in endless waves, turbulent and tossed as ships in a storm. Yet he remained quiet.

Hannibal hadn't told him to come here _explicitly_ , but the implication was there. Perhaps he had misunderstood all together, for Hannibal seemed to be taking his own sweet time. With the doubt came the creeping notion that Will should remove himself, return back downstairs, leave Hannibal’s private domain.

But he liked it here, this quiet harbor. It was Hannibal-as-room, with its rich fabrics and bone-deep charm, and Will found a calmness in it, a control, his thoughts borrowing Hannibal’s voice as they tried to say what his own could not. He did not belong here, with his unbrushed hair and thrice-patched shirt, and yet Will felt as comfortable in Hannibal’s company and space as he did in his own. His eyes hardly met anyone else’s except Hannibal’s, as though this man were the only person it felt safe to let see him – and the madness lurking there. Perhaps he was.

Hannibal at least seemed to understand that the human world was a mess, that the great mess couldn’t continue cramming itself into Will’s abused skull forever. Eventually it would snap, broken into nothing more than flotsam and jetsam. Unless, of course, the darkness simply swallowed him whole.

Some days that seemed preferable.

The sigh of a door closing jolted him. Hannibal entered with a tray with tea and coffee, eyes flicking across the room as he moved to set his offering down on the table by the fireplace. He asked Will which he preferred, but Will shook his head. He expected the man to insist, but Hannibal merely dipped his head to the left. He set the teacup back down on the tray, coffee and tea forgotten, and moved forward with slow, deliberate steps.  

Hannibal stopped before Will, the space between them less than the span of a hand. His breath washed against Will’s cheeks as his words broke over his ears. “When the door of a bird’s cage is open, the creature will often remain within, paralyzed by freedom. But latch the door shut and the bird will throw itself upon the bars in its desperation to escape. With your voice trapped within you, do you feel compelled to dash your thoughts against the bars?”

Hannibal’s dark gaze swept over Will’s face, sinking lower until it settled on Will’s throat. “You already have one strike against you, Will. Endeavor to be soundless.”

Faster than Will’s thoughts could form, Hannibal had already taken action, his lips latching on to Will’s skin with the barest hint of teeth that sent Will’s heart racing. Will wanted to ask what exactly would happen if he earned three strikes, but then Hannibal  _did_ use his teeth and for a moment his mind went beautifully blank. Will’s head fell back, the sound of his breath booming around him. His hands found Hannibal’s elbows and followed the hard lines of sinew robed in skin and soft cotton up to round his shoulders, arms sliding in reflexively to circle them.

“I must warn you,” the words fell hot against his throat, “I will try to rip your voice from you, if only to test the strength of the cage.”

Then Will truly felt like he was sinking. Quick fingers worked the buttons of Will’s shirt open with such practicality that Will couldn’t decide whether this was sexual for Hannibal at all. Perhaps it was just an amusing exercise to be added to Will’s dossier.

Sex for therapeutic value.

The thought rung like a bell, clear and whole, and with such vulgarity that Will wanted to put a stop to it, tensed with the intention of removing himself, but Hannibal’s hand ghosted over his skin. His head dipped, hair falling forward over his forehead and Will found himself caught like a hooked fish when he met Hannibal’s eyes. The man’s hand pressed harder against flesh and Will arched up, barely managing to swallow a curse. 

“Such control,” Hannibal smiled. “What a contrast to your dreams, hmm?” His fingers teased open the zipper of Will’s jeans, gaze never wavering as he raked strong fingers down Will’s sides, dragging the denim past his knees. One hand returned to rest against the bulge in Will’s boxers, fingers moving slowly, soft and curling as tentacles, and Will bit his lip hard enough to draw blood in order to keep his moan buried. That delicately firm touch moved over his hips and up his chest, circling his jaw until Hannibal finally  ran a finger over the Will’s torn lip. He stared at it for a moment, then brought the finger to his own lips, wiping it away with a languid tongue, and Will’s hand flew up to cover his own mouth, refusing to take the bait. 

 _Control_.  

Hannibal cocked a brow. He knelt down and his mouth reversed the path his fingers had taken until he reached the elastic band of Will’s boxers. He took it between his teeth and tugged down, his hair falling to brush against skin. Will closed his eyes, but as the sensation washed over him he couldn’t suppress a pained sound that ripped from the back of his throat.

As quickly as he’d started, Hannibal stopped, sitting back on his legs, hands folded over his lap like a penitent child. A trace of Will’s blood was still smeared across his top lip, but his eyes were sharp and disappointed. “Strike two."

Hannibal took Will’s hand and guided him to the bed. With a gentle press Will sat on the edge and looked up into Hannibal’s face, pleading.

“You are easily overwhelmed by the world, Will. Your response until now has been to echo it, to sing with it, despite the requisite dangers. You profess you seek to control your own life, your own actions, and yet in truth you don’t, do you? You bend in answer to Jack, to your own empathy, and even right now, to me. It is no wonder your dreams haunt you, it is the only way you can get yourself to listen to what is going on in your own head.”

Hannibal reached for Will’s lips, dragging them open with one finger. Then his hand slid across Will’s cheek, over his ear, fingers burrowing at last into his tousled curls to cradle Will’s head gently. He bent again, fabric rasping against skin as he slid against Will’s body, stopping to draw one nipple into his mouth and making Will’s breath hitch.

“Be silent. Be still,” Hannibal warned. “Respond to me if you wish, but only because you want to, not because your empathy dictates it. I don’t want to control you, Will, I want to _unleash_ you, but nothing I can say will ever help you if you don’t hear _yourself_ first. You struggle with your world, with your place in it, want to be something other than what you think you are condemned to always be. Your body knows it, is waiting for the rest of you to figure it out. Don’t underestimate the importance of body language. Listen to it.”

Will felt his body float beneath Hannibal’s touch. He slowed his breathing, willed his limbs to be heavy. What would happen if he disrupted the automatic feedback loop? He couldn’t quiet the voices and images and viscera that came to him, but he could quiet his own voice, could sit back and allow the alien feelings to wash over him without fear. But only if Hannibal was here. He couldn’t do it alone – not yet.

Hannibal swam up his body, lips finding lips, and Will followed the urge to kiss him back, hands tangling in the collar of Hannibal’s shirt. It was odd, to be almost completely naked and feel the brush of Hannibal’s clothes on his skin. He could fix _that_ without speaking, at least.

He yanked at Hannibal’s tie, holding Hannibal’s mouth to his as he breathed heavily through his nose. As he worked on the buttons of Hannibal’s shirt, his mind crashed into him, loud and unapologetic: _whatisitwhatdoeshewantwhoareyouwhoareyou_. In response he bit down hard on Hannibal’s neck,  a groan reverberating through him. For a moment he paused, horrified that the sound had escaped him again, but the sound was not in his throat. It came from the throat under his teeth. Strike three belonged to Hannibal, and Will felt power in his victory. His hand dipped below Hannibal’s waistband, letting his arousal tear through him.

“Such exquisite notes without a sound,” Hannibal gasped.  He clasped his hand to Will’s jaw, a strong thumb stamped across Will’s mouth, staring down at him for one heartbeat, then another. “Now sing for me.”

Without warning one of Hannibal’s hands wrapped around Will’s cock while the other moved to clutch Will’s hair, dragging his head back. Hannibal kept his eyes on Will’s throat.

Will’s breath rattled through his teeth as Hannibal’s lips trailed over his Adam’s apple, the flesh beneath his chin, his jaw. Will would let him have it – his breath, his blood, his voice. And when Hannibal’s hand stroked faster Will told him as much with clutching hands and claiming lips before he saw white, bright white like sunlight as he gasped for air.

Will collapsed back onto the mussed sea of linens beneath him, utterly spent, arms clutching Hannibal’s neck. He knew he should rise, gather his things and go before the magnitude of this dawned on him, before he could no longer meet Hannibal’s eyes. But sleep called louder, taunting him with darkness that wrapped like strong, secure arms around him, promising to pull him to safety.

 

Sleep always came at a price. 

In this dream he had no words, his voice gone even beyond the powers of his own control. He watched a ship bobbing on the seas, the festivities on board distracting the sailors from the signs of a storm blowing in fast. But he saw it, the hard pitch of the waves, the changing wind, he called out to them in warning, but no sound came. Only the storm did.

The sailors scrambled over deck and up rigging, desperate to release the sails from the driving wind, to steer the ship’s prowl into the oncoming walls of water that broke without mercy over the sides. But no one had thought to douse the lanterns, and in the madness they fell, hell rising up to great them.

Most men abandoned ship with unparalleled speed, dropping a rowboat into the turmoil and taking their chances, but there were some that didn’t. One man turned, running back into the fire to save a dog before he searched for his own safety. As he threw the bundle of fur free of the inferno, time ran out. The mast splintered and fell, crashing through the main deck, flames breaching the ship’s magazine, and the world erupted in thunderous fire.

The unlucky sailor was thrown from the wreckage, plummeting in an unconscious tangle of limbs through the air until the sea swallowed him. Will looked to those in the lifeboat, but they had not seen, they did not know, or maybe they did and could not bring themselves to care. No one was going to save him.

Will dove beneath the surface, fighting his way past debris and the unrelenting pull of the ocean’s current to follow the stranger. He saw him, a vague outline in a dark world, disappearing into the fathoms below.

His desperate reach caught a hand and he pulled, kicking for the surface as he pulled and pulled. The waves sloshed over him, slamming him hard into a bit of broken railing, but Will seized at it, grabbing a steady hold and dragging the shipwrecked sailor up beside him. He pushed the man over, desperately checking for a pulse, and only then did he see it.

The drowned man wore his face.

“ _Itsgonnakillme!_ ” the words came on an indrawn breath as Will vaulted out of sleep, shooting up on the bed and doubling over until his head bent to his knees. He sat there in a heap, naked, trembling – and now _knowing._  

“Will?” The touch on his back nearly sent a scream tearing free. For a moment he had forgotten where he was, what he had done. Certainly with whom. He turned to find Hannibal lying beside him, hair tousled, clothes torn half off, as though he too had been shipwrecked by Will’s dream.

“It’s going to kill me,” Will said again, showing the half-conscious man the words he had found.

In the pause that met his revelation, he could practically hear the other man dissecting his words. When he opened his mouth finally, Will was sure Hannibal was about to disabuse him of this truth, but all he said was, “Tell me about your dream.”

He did. In slow recollection, grasping at shattered pieces and trying to put them back together, Will told him everything he could remember, ending in the man on the driftwood, his face Will’s own. “It’s going to kill me, isn’t it? All of it. It’s going to drag me down, and no one else will help me.”

Hannibal waited for Will to meet his eyes, looking up at him from below. “I will help you,” he said quietly. “If you let me, I will help you. Even if no one else can find you, I will.”

“Maybe the others had it right,” Will shook his head. “Maybe it would be kinder to simply let me drown after everything has been destroyed. What would there be left worth returning to?”

Hannibal shrugged, “You once told me that you felt as though you’d dragged me into your world. If that world no longer exists, maybe I will simply offer you a place in mine.”

Will couldn’t help the huff of laughter that escaped him, looking around at the elegant opulence, the careful precision of each object on shelves and furniture on rugs. The curtains had tassels. _Tassels._ What place could there possibly be for Will here? And yet he had already admitted it to himself, the odd sense of comfort he found in Hannibal’s space, like borrowing a friend’s suit, expecting it to fit awkwardly, only to find it fit better than his own. “What if I wanted that?” Will asked. “To be part of your world.”

Hannibal smiled, that little quirk of lips that veiled his own thoughts with a hint of humor. “That would be a truly spectacular experiment.” He kissed Will’s forehead, his smile slicing through skin. “Someday.”


End file.
